


Limit

by Humbae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alchemy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Cuddling, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, No Character Death, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Seizures, Whump, mention of suicide, mutation malady
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humbae/pseuds/Humbae
Summary: When something is wrong with Geralt, Jaskier and the witchers at Kaer Morhen combine their strengths to save him in time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 110
Kudos: 409





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert: no character death. Things get bleak, but a happy ending is guaranteed.

The first time it happened, Jaskier thought it was funny. They were packing up their camp in the morning, and Geralt told him to ‘hurry the up up’. Jaskier laughed, and as they were walking side by side, he greatly amused himself by working the phrase into as many sentences as he could. Only when they stopped for lunch and he hollered at Geralt to _hurry the up up_ did he realise how far behind he’d fallen.

“Are you quite alright?” Jaskier asked when Geralt reached the campsite. It was a clearing on the side of the road with a firepit in the middle that looked like it saw heavy use. There were cold coals and half-burned logs piled on top of each other inside a stone circle, and tracks all around.

“Fine,” Geralt said. He was squinting in the bright midday sunshine despite his narrowed pupils.

“Sit down, relax, we’re in no particular hurry,” Jaskier said. He dropped his backpack on the ground and started rummaging in it for his water skin. They were travelling without their horses since the mission would require climbing a mountain later, meaning that Jaskier had to lug his own provisions around. He had complained until Geralt had threatened to leave him behind in the stable as well.

“Is the me what what,” Geralt said, frowning heavily.

“What?” Jaskier asked. He felt no trace of amusement now, only cold dread. “Geralt, do you hear what you’re saying?”

Geralt shook his head, not in denial but as a sign of confusion.

“I think we need to entertain the possibility that you’ve been cursed or something. Shit, how far is the nearest town?”

Geralt didn’t reply. His eyes had taken on a far-away look and he was breathing too fast, emphasising the inhales. He stood rigidly, but slumped towards the left a little bit.

“You’re seriously scaring me now,” Jaskier said. He walked closer to Geralt and put his hand on his shoulder. No reaction. They stood frozen for a while, until Geralt jerked, startling Jaskier. He looked around, in control of his breathing and posture again, fully alert.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. He was scanning the scenery, as if searching for an assailant.

“You tell me,” Jaskier said. “You talked nonsense and then you went quiet and sort of absent. Do you feel alright?”

“Yes. A bit tired,” he admitted. Jaskier thought he moved unusually stiffly when he sat down by the cold firepit. He took a seat next to Geralt, closer than was socially acceptable, but neither commented on it.

“We should postpone the mission,” Jaskier said. “Find us a mage, make sure you aren’t cursed.”

“I’m not cursed, I’d know. We’ll continue as planned.”

“I’m not sure that’s prudent. What if this -- whatever it was -- happens again during a fight?”

“It won’t,” Geralt said. His voice carried conviction, but Jaskier had his doubts. No willpower in the world would help if something was actually wrong with Geralt.

“Your call. But I’ve raised my objections.”

“Noted. And ignored.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Jaskier said, with not insignificant fondness, underlined by growing worry.

*****

The season turned with no further incident. The heat of summer was gradually fading, giving way to the cool nip of autumn. Geralt and Jaskier wandered on, chasing contracts and stories in all corners of the known world, with the need to find a place in which to winter in mind. Kaer Morhen was always a good option, and they were gravitating towards it. There was still plenty of time to gather resources, but the task needed to be started early in order to have enough to survive however long the snows would block the roads this year.

“This is the best that autumn has to offer,” Jaskier declared. “The leaves have turned into a celebration of colour, the sun still caresses us tenderly, not a cloud in sight. It’ll be a beautiful, clear night under the stars.”

“It’ll rain.”

“No it won’t. I smell sunshine and warm ground, not a hint of storm in the air.”

“It’ll rain,” Geralt repeated.

Later, as they huddled under a tall, dense oak, close to each other to keep the humid wind and torrential rain at bay, Jaskier smacked Geralt in the ribs with his elbow. Geralt turned to look at him.

“Must you always be right?” Jaskier asked with a huff.

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said, as if that would explain everything.

“What, did you learn how to predict the weather as part of your training?”

“I feel it in my bones.”

Jaskier had no response to that. He’d been grumbling with good humour, more to pass the time than as any sort of valid complaint. Thinking about all the damage Geralt had accumulated over the years and the aching remnants that still bothered him stole all the levity from Jaskier’s mood. Not long after that, the first flash of lightning split the sky in front of them. Thunder followed two seconds later, painfully loud.

“Umm, that’s awfully close,” Jaskier said. He looked around, noting that their tree was standing solitary among a field of late rye. “As little as I want to get wet, shouldn’t we move away?”

Geralt said nothing. Jaskier nudged him on the side, thinking he hadn’t heard him over the wind. But as Jaskier disturbed him, Geralt slumped to the ground, head splashing into a shallow puddle.

“Mother of mine, Geralt!”

Jaskier was on his knees in an instant, rolling Geralt on his back so that his face wasn’t submerged. Lightning flashed again, immediately followed by thunder. Jaskier didn’t have time to see where it hit. He grabbed Geralt under the arms and started dragging him away from the tree.

Jaskier pulled him to the nearest ditch, dropping Geralt to the bottom and settling on top of him. There was water under them, but not deep enough to cause concern. He kept as low as possible and turned to look at Geralt. His eyes were closed and he didn’t respond when Jaskier called his name and slapped his cheek.

“What’s wrong with you, Geralt? I’m getting scared here.”

Lightning struck again, right at the edge of the forest on the other side of the field where they’d left the horses, sheltered among the trees while they studied the solitary oak that was said to be possessed by spirits. They’d found no evidence of such creatures, and the rain had caught them while still investigating. Jaskier felt Geralt tense under him, but he remained unconscious. He felt like crying. He was alone, scared, and in imminent danger as the storm raged around them. Maybe the horses had run away too. Geralt’s current mare was as docile as could be, but Jaskier’s mount -- Zander -- was young and spirited.

“Jaskier?”

He jumped and looked down. Geralt was frowning at him, eyes hazy with confusion.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re going to see a healer if we ever get out of here. Something’s not right with you. At least I’m quite certain it’s not considered normal even among witchers to randomly pass out. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy. I gotta lie down.”

“You _are_ lying down. Seriously Geralt, I’m really scared. Do you realise you could’ve died if I hadn’t dragged you away?”

“From what?” Geralt asked. He closed his eyes and brought a hand up from under Jaskier to rub at his left temple.

Jaskier didn’t get to answer. At that moment, another lightning bolt flashed across the sky, hitting the oak tree in an explosion of sparks. Jaskier cried in terror and pressed himself lower against Geralt, burying his face in his chest. The clap of thunder boomed in their ears, deafening everything else for a moment. Jaskier realised he was shaking and squeezing Geralt, but he couldn’t disengage. He smelled the scorched branches and the upturned soil. He couldn’t think about how mere moments ago they had been under the tree, exactly where the bolt had hit.

“I wanna go home! I wanna go home right now! I can’t be here anymore!” Jaskier howled, his control evaporating as the thunder kept rolling and the rain and the wind kept battering him. He thought he’d break to pieces, until he felt two strong arms wrap around his back. He resisted at first, not wanting to be restrained in his frantic state, but the arms pulled him down against something very solid and warm. The fight went out of Jaskier. He relaxed his arms and allowed his head to flop against Geralt’s chest. With his ear pressed down, he could hear Geralt’s steady heartbeat through the leather jerkin. Geralt wasn’t panicking. The calm spread to Jaskier as well, soothing him through his fear.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly after a long while, when he no longer heard the boom of thunder.

“What is it?”

“Do you know what’s happening to you?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?” Jaskier asked, eyes still closed. He could smell the wet leather right under his nose. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“We should go back to the village,” Geralt said.

“Geralt. Please don’t do that.”

“Do what? We’re here to fulfil a contract and we’ve reached a conclusion. Only rumours haunt that tree.”

“Don’t shut me out. Don’t pretend that everything’s alright and you’re completely fine. It really hurts me when you show so blatantly that you don’t trust me.”

A moment of silence followed. Jaskier stayed where he was, tense now, but unwilling to move. He heard no change in Geralt’s pulse, felt no difference in his breathing. His arms remained around Jaskier and they maintained their steady grip.

“Would you prefer if I cried and lamented my fate?” Geralt asked. Jaskier could detect no emotion in his voice. “You know what I am. You know how it’ll inevitably end for me. I’ve accepted that a long time ago.”

“I know your profession is dangerous, I’ve witnessed it often enough first-hand, but this is something else. Maybe it’s a curse that can be lifted? We have to find out and try to fix what’s wrong.”

“And if it can’t be fixed?”

“We’ll worry about that only after we’ve tried absolutely everything.”

*****

The first snow of the season caught them on the road. There was silent beauty in the slowly falling flakes, but Jaskier cursed up a storm as he huddled deeper into his cloak, and Geralt grimaced as he rubbed his left shoulder. They were following the Gwenllech river for the third day and had just reached the first mountain range. Geralt estimated that they had at least two days of travel left before they’d reach Kaer Morhen, potentially more if the snow didn’t melt.

“I am the most miserable human in existence!” Jaskier declared and rubbed his hands together. He had thick fur-lined leather mittens, but the cold seeped in regardless. Zander snorted at the sudden sound, but kept trudging on. Roach was leading, knowing the way home from previous visits, teaching the young gelding the path. Jaskier had no idea where they were. The witchers’ hidden keep was in a corner of the world that he never visited due to the isolated location and the atrocious weather. Even if there had been the wealthiest village with the most generous patrons of art, he’d still have hesitated to make the trip. As much as he loved adventure, he was a creature of comfort.

“Why did we start the journey so late!”

“Because we’ve been taking twice as long with your special mission,” Geralt replied. He sounded irritated.

“Well excuse me for giving a toss about you! You know why we’ve been seeking out every bloody healer and mage and sorceress under the sun. Don’t try to blame me for trying to save your worthless hide!”

Jaskier breathed hard. The fear that had been nagging at him since summer returned to the surface. He tried to suppress it, but every time Geralt stumbled or was too slow to react, it gripped his heart and squeezed with icy fingers. They’d had more incidents as the autumn wore on and changed to early winter. Moments when Geralt didn’t know where he was. Intense headaches he pretended weren’t there. Going absent mid-conversation. Fainting, falling, dropping his swords. It was a miracle he hadn’t been killed in combat yet, but somehow he’d kept himself together during missions. Perhaps the witcher potions made the difference. He was doing better when he was doused with them, but because of their toxic nature, he couldn’t rely on them indefinitely. And the come-downs were getting harsher. After a particularly difficult fight with a nest of harpies, he’d consumed five different elixirs and been incapacitated for a full day after they wore off. And Jaskier had been beside him, worried off his mind for every moment of it.

“I know. Sorry,” Geralt mumbled. Jaskier looked up, concerned he might be slipping off again, but he appeared just to be disheartened.

“Come on, we’ll figure this out. You’re not in this alone.”

Geralt didn’t reply, but the unguarded look he gave Jaskier made him forget how cold he was for a moment. Geralt wasn’t good at telling him so, but he let Jaskier know he appreciated his presence in small yet honest ways.

They kept advancing through the falling snow. It had formed a thin layer between the stones already, making it difficult to see the shape of the terrain. Roach and Zander were sure-footed, but their pace had slowed down to accommodate for the slippery surface, making their progress modest. This far north in the late season, darkness would fall early. Geralt had the lead, but even he would struggle to see on such an overcast night. Their desire to stop was dampened by their urgency to reach the keep, making them push beyond what was strictly sensible. As they grew more tired in the cold, having travelled all day, their attention started to slip, especially Jaskier’s.

Since Roach knew the way and was walking first, Jaskier didn’t immediately notice that she wasn’t being controlled by her rider. She kept going steadily, picking a path around the largest boulders and rocks. When she took an unusually sharp turn, Geralt slumped against her neck. The movement caught Jaskier’s eye and he spurred Zander to get abreast with Roach.

“Woah girl, stop,” he said while reaching for the reins. He plucked them easily from Geralt’s inert fingers and pulled firmly. The horses stopped walking, their breath misting in the cold night air.

“Geralt? Really bad moment for this. Can you hear me?”

Geralt squinted his eyes and grunted softly. His hands seemed to be searching for something so Jaskier inserted his own into the nearest one.

“Come on, listen to my voice, come back,” he said softly. The mountains were eerily quiet, even the wind wasn’t blowing hard enough to make a sound. Geralt opened his eyes, still astride, supported by Jaskier. He pulled himself straight, looking around as if he didn’t know where they were.

“Kaedwen, on the road to Kaer Morhen. You with me?”

“Yeah. Can we stop?” Geralt leaned forwards and was about to rest his head on his hands, but he was still clutching Jaskier’s fingers. He looked at their joined hands as if Jaskier was trapping him instead of the other way around.

“I think we should, yes,” Jaskier said. He pulled his hand loose and dismounted. The path they were following didn’t really have any level enough spots to camp at, so he led the horses close to the sheer wall of the mountain, hoping to find some crevice where they could build a fire. He was groping around nearly blindly, but through some miracle he encountered a dip in the rock that could be described as a proper cave. Elated by the discovery, he pulled the horses inside.

“I’ll get the fire going, just sit tight,” he said as he took out some of their emergency wood supply from Zander’s saddle bag. There was very little to burn in the mountains between the river and the keep, so they’d come prepared. Jaskier’s stiff fingers slowed him down in the familiar task, but finally he had a fire burning.

“Alright, let’s get you down,” he said and turned to Geralt. That he hadn’t dismounted on his own meant that he couldn’t. Jaskier slipped his feet off the stirrups and took his arm on his shoulder. In one smooth movement, he had Geralt standing on the ground, leaning heavily on him.

“What’s burning?” Geralt asked. He followed without resistance when Jaskier pulled him closer to the fire.

“Just the wood. Sit down.”

“No, it smells… green.”

“Green? Do you mean fresh wood? Because these are the old fallen bits we gathered in the forest before we left the treeline, remember?”

Geralt said nothing. He stood still, eyes directed upwards but unfocused. Jaskier was about to sit down and pull him with him, when Geralt went stiff. He remained in position for a moment before he collapsed on the ground and started convulsing. Jaskier’s eyes widened and he froze, uncertain what to do. His heart clenched seeing Geralt toss his head from side to side, making strangled sounds, limbs jerking erratically, hitting the rocks beside him with no care for the strength of the impacts. After a particularly nasty-sounding hit of his right hand, Jaskier grabbed it and held it, finding purpose in protecting Geralt while the seizure ran its course. He slipped his arm under Geralt’s head, cradling it in the crook of his elbow to keep him from smashing it on the ground. The spasming seemed to last for a long time. Jaskier bit his lip, eyes moist with unshed tears and heart pounding crazily in his chest. He didn’t say anything. The horses moved restlessly and his voice would’ve calmed them down, but Jaskier couldn’t utter a single word.

Finally, the fit passed. Geralt stopped moving and lay there panting, completely limp in Jaskier’s grip. He settled him on the ground and rolled him onto his side, tipping his head a bit further to empty his mouth of saliva. Geralt didn’t react to the handling. Jaskier took a step back, leaning into the cave wall. He pressed his hands against the cold rock, breathing hard. One of the horses whinnied. The sudden sound seemed to dislodge something in Jaskier, and he started to cry. Lightly at first, just a few tears on his cheeks, but as the emotional weight of what he’d just been through came crashing down on him, the tears came harder and snot ran from his nose. He buried his face in his hands, still in the thick mittens, and allowed his sobs to wrack him, rocking against the wall. The horses grew even more restless, but Jaskier couldn’t pay them any mind, he was too overcome. He cried until he calmed down, congested and tired, but feeling a bit steadier.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?” he asked and knelt down. Geralt was still out of it, but his breathing had slowed to normal. Jaskier retrieved both their blankets and covered him with them before turning to care for the horses. He lost himself in the task, feeling the comforting warmth of the animals. They were calm now too, mirroring his emotions. He was still scared, more than he’d ever been before, but he had no strength left to panic. With numb, single-minded focus, he completed what he’d set out to do, then lay down with Geralt, hopefully to sleep until morning. He refused to consider the possibility that he could be the only one to wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky had cleared by late morning. The sun rose above the horizon and shone directly into Jaskier’s eyes. He turned his head, refusing to leave the warm bliss of sleep. But once he’d woken up, he became more and more aware of physical sensations until he couldn’t ignore them. His full bladder, the rock digging into his hip, the hair in his face. He didn’t keep his own long enough to reach his nose, but he’d woken up often enough with Geralt’s long locks suffocating him that he recognised the silky strands. He blew them off and opened his eyes. The sun was unreasonably bright, low on the cloudless blue sky. Had Jaskier been a bit snugger behind Geralt, the rays wouldn’t have bothered him, but he had Geralt’s head right under his chin, offering no protection from the cruel light of day.

“It’s too early for this,” Jaskier mumbled. He was awake against his will, reluctant to start the day, but he knew there was no going back now. This late in the season, it had to be closer to midday already, judging by the sun’s position. Just half a year ago, Geralt would’ve been up for hours already, fully packed and ready to go, waking Jaskier for breakfast if they happened to have any. These days, Jaskier usually had to rouse him.

Jaskier extricated himself from the warm cocoon of blankets and slipped outside. It promised to be a lovely day, although bitingly cold. Jaskier emptied his bladder quickly and rushed back inside, rubbing his hands together. He looked at the remains of their fire, hoping to find warmth there, but it had burned out hours ago.

“Time to get up, we’re losing daylight,” Jaskier said and shook Geralt’s shoulder. It was eerie how he’d adopted the witcher’s phrases when he was the one responsible for getting them moving. He didn’t like it. He was supposed to be the lazy freeloader, needing to only worry about where his lute was and that his wineskins were full. He nudged Geralt again and turned to feed the horses. They were pleased about receiving their share and Jaskier gave them some additional attention by patting and rubbing them. When he turned back around, Geralt still hadn’t gotten up, though he was awake.

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier asked. He squatted on the ground and handed a skin over, this one containing water.

“Sore. Did something happen last night?” Geralt’s voice was husky and he moved slowly, demonstrating just how spry he felt.

“What do you remember?”

“Less than I should,” Geralt said and took a drink. Jaskier kept looking at him, waiting for an actual answer. “Uhh, we left the river, started climbing the mountain…”

“That’s all?”

Geralt only shrugged in response. He didn’t like discussing his weaknesses. Jaskier would’ve preferred not to as well, but he needed to know what condition he was in to assess if they could continue. Again, a responsibility he did not want, yet would not relinquish either. Somewhere along the way, Geralt had become his to care for, and for reasons he couldn’t understand himself, he hadn’t run away. Quite the opposite, when they’d visited Nenneke and she had suggested that Geralt should stay at the temple to be under constant supervision, he and Geralt had both protested vehemently. The priestesses hadn’t found out what was wrong with him or how to fix it, but they’d offered to take the responsibility off from Jaskier’s hands. He smiled when he remembered how angry he’d gotten at the mere idea of being parted from Geralt, or having to see others care for him in his stead.

“You know, sometimes I surprise myself,” Jaskier said. Geralt looked at him with scrunched brows, confusion written on his face. Jaskier waved his hand.

“Nothing interesting happened last night. You shook a bit, but it passed. You’ll be fine. And I’ll be here when you aren’t. That’s what surprises me. They shall call me Jaskier the Steadfast.”

“Are you talking nonsense, or am I going crazy now too?”

Jaskier’s smile fell. He grabbed the blankets from the ground and rolled them up. With an abrupt motion, he turned around to stuff them in the saddle bags, and took a deep breath.

“Don’t say that. Your body may be temporarily misbehaving, but your mind is intact. You’re still you.”

“Would that be the breaking point?” Geralt asked, very quietly. Jaskier couldn’t turn around to look at him. “If I lose myself fully, will you walk away?”

“No,” Jaskier said. He shut his eyes to keep the threatening tears inside.

“You should,” Geralt said. Jaskier clenched his jaws. “If I reach a point where I’m worth nothing, of no use to anyone, there’s no sense in keeping me alive. You shouldn’t waste your --”

“Shut up! That’s the thing, don’t you see? Your worth is not in what you can do, it’s in who you are. And that will remain, no matter what. Whether you’re there or not, you’re still you. And I will never stop fighting for that. But I’d be alone. And I don’t want to be alone. Do you understand?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said.

Jaskier wiped his nose, so roughly it hurt. He pulled the strap on the saddlebag tighter, securing the bedroll. He blinked until his eyes were clear before turning around.

“You do know. But you don’t agree. And I don’t agree with that. So shut up and let’s get going,” he said and offered his hand to Geralt.

Geralt took the hand and stood up, stiffly and slowly, but he stayed on his feet. Jaskier turned towards Zander, prepared to get up, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t there to take support, but rather to give it. Jaskier put his own hand on top of Geralt’s and closed his eyes. He heard what his friend would never say: how much he appreciated Jaskier, how much his presence meant to him. Jaskier was a man of words, he processed the world not through actions or sensations but through the sound of speech. With Geralt, he had to adopt a different kind of thinking. To find the meaning in touches and looks, in the little things he did. When Geralt mended his trousers for him, it wasn’t because he was better at sewing. When he let Jaskier choose which grilled fish he wanted, it wasn’t because he was indifferent. Not once had Geralt touched him by accident, he was far too nimble to brush against him in passing unless he meant to. Jaskier smiled. He allowed his hand to linger for a moment longer before proceeding to mount. With small touches like that, he knew he wasn’t shouting into the void.

“We should reach Kaer Morhen in the evening,” Geralt said after he’d recognised their location in the mountains. “The final stretch now.”

“Do you know if anyone else will be there this winter?” Jaskier asked. The wind was picking up again and he pulled his collar as high as it would go.

“At least Vesemir, he’s all but retired. Or, as he likes to put it, he maintains the keep.”

“Someone has to do it,” Jaskier agreed with a grin. They rode on, alternating between easy banter and comfortable silence. They didn’t push the horses too hard since the path was icy and the wind cold, but they did keep up a brisk pace. There was no hope of reaching the castle before dark due to their late start, but they were prepared to keep going all night if feasible. The moon should be nearly full and would offer plenty of light if clouds didn’t appear to cover it. Jaskier allowed the rhythm of travel to lull him into a calm, serene mood. The constant worry over Geralt was still on his mind, but the impressive sight of the wide expanse of blue sky above them and the green valley below pushed it to the background. It also helped that Geralt was doing well that day, a little bit sore but his mind was sharp. He could almost allow himself to forget that anything was wrong at all.

The sun started descending soon after their second break for food and to let the horses rest. The colours it painted across the horizon on its way down were magnificent, yet the threat of darkness dampened Jaskier’s appreciation of the beauty. They walked up another narrow path, going ever higher. The wind was freezing now, but the scenery around them made up for the discomfort. Of course, soon it would be too dark to see anything. Then there would be nothing but misery, Jaskier thought and rubbed his hands together. But the promise of warmth and finally reaching their destination spurred them on.

“Are you sure it’ll be okay that I come with you?” Jaskier asked. They’d been through the same conversation before, but he couldn’t shake his nervousness, especially now when they were so close. Meeting new witchers was an intimidating prospect, no matter how much he respected them and trusted the one he knew.

“We only protect the keep from enemies. You’re not our enemy.”

Jaskier smiled at the words. He was still nervous, but Geralt’s calm reassurance settled him. He wouldn’t be alone.

*****

By the time they reached Kaer Morhen, the sun was long gone, and the moon had travelled most of the way across the sky. It was bitterly cold, but the stars and the near-full moon illuminated their path well enough that the horses could easily make their way onwards. There hadn’t been more snow, leaving the trail mostly bare. Jaskier was furiously hungry, tired, and entirely given up on ever feeling his fingers again. When Geralt knocked on the gate, he was convinced no one would hear and they’d have to camp outside, slowly freezing to death, but after a moment the heavily fortified wooden doors creaked open. They rode inside, entering a dark courtyard with a clatter of hooves against cobblestones.

“You brought a stranger?” a voice in the darkness asked. Jaskier couldn’t locate the source, and dread filled him. He would have to turn back and ride away alone. He should’ve known this would happen, the witchers were too wary of outsiders.

“Better than your dreary company,” Geralt replied. Jaskier sat still in stunned silence. A man emerged from the shadows. He was slightly shorter than Geralt, but had a heavier build. As he stepped further into the moonlight, a large scar was revealed on his face that was framed by dark brown hair. He looked menacing, even when there were no obvious weapons on him.

Geralt dismounted and stood in front of the man, pulling himself to his full height. They stared at each other for a moment before breaking out in wide smiles and trading fierce hugs. The man laughed and pounded Geralt on the back.

“It’s been too long, brother!” he said. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Jaskier, you’ve probably heard of him.”

Jaskier took that as his cue to dismount. He dropped onto the icy stones, limbs stiff from the long ride, but he kept his balance. The man approached him, assessing him with his yellow eyes.

“The troubadour? I’ve heard your songs, they’re very entertaining. I’m Eskel, welcome to Kaer Morhen.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. He was feeling slightly out of sorts. He had expected a keep full of Geralts, all cold and aloof, barely accepting him amongst their midst. The warm greeting he received surprised him as much as it delighted him.

“Come on inside, you must be freezing. I’m the only one here in addition to Vesemir, will be a nice change to have some company.”

“I’ll take care of the horses,” Geralt said as he collected the reins, “you go inside.”

Jaskier wanted to protest. He wasn’t usually hesitant when entering new places, but this was Geralt’s home, something that he felt he shouldn’t explore on his own. But the coldness of the night made him shiver and the promise of warmth was too enticing to resist. And Eskel was emanating an aura of friendliness, inviting him in.

“We have plenty of space here, you can have a room with a fireplace,” Eskel said as he led them inside.

“That sounds wonderful, thank you,” Jaskier said. He followed as they entered the castle. The attack it had endured years ago was still visible in the broken walls and the burned remains of wooden structures, but there were signs of all the work that had gone into repairing it as well. The front door was relatively fresh wood, not weather-beaten into greyness yet, and he could occasionally smell fresh mortar as they walked along the corridors, but he was too tired to take everything in properly. Had he been required to find his way back outside from the door Eskel stopped in front of, he couldn’t have done it.

“You missed supper, but I’ll find you something from the kitchen. Don’t wander around, the castle isn’t safe.”

“Understood. I wouldn’t even have the strength for exploration now,” Jaskier said with a smile. Eskel nodded at him and disappeared down the corridor. Jaskier entered his room and looked around. It was mostly bare but it had the necessities, like the promised fireplace and a very inviting bed. Jaskier sat down on it and waited. The room wasn’t warm enough for him to remove his outer layers, and he’d left all his luggage with Zander. With nothing better to do, he closed his tired eyes and allowed his mind to drift, thinking about sunny days and colourful birds.

“What are you doing?” a muffled voice asked. Jaskier shook himself out of his thoughts and looked around. No one was in the room, but he was certain he’d heard a voice. He got up from the bed and opened the door. His eyes widened when he saw Geralt and Eskel standing in the hallway. Eskel was carrying what looked like a short wooden plank with a mug and a plate full of something brown steaming on it. He was looking at Geralt, who was looking at the wall, nose nearly touching it.

“Geralt?” Eskel asked, sparing a glance at Jaskier as he stepped out of the room.

“Err, this happens sometimes,” Jaskier said. He put his hand on Geralt’s back, ready to support him if he returned to himself unsteady. “You’ve never seen this before?”

“No,” Eskel said. His voice was harsh. Based on his behaviour earlier, Jaskier assumed he was worried, potentially even scared, rather than angry.

“I guess we need to talk about this,” Jaskier said. He had expected that at some point he’d have to deal with the witchers alone while Geralt had one of his fits, but he had foolishly failed to consider the possibility that he’d have to do so on the first night.

“Is he alright?”

“I don’t know, but this should pass soon,” Jaskier said. They waited awkwardly until Geralt finally gasped and jerked backwards. Jaskier held him while he found his bearings, looking around wildly.

“At the keep, brother,” Eskel said. Geralt turned to look at him, eyes widening in recognition. Eskel took the bag Geralt was carrying and tossed it on his own shoulder, grabbed his arm, and pulled him towards Jaskier’s room.

“Have you hit your head recently?”

“No,” Geralt said, a little bit hoarsely. Jaskier followed behind them, feeling irrationally like an intruder.

“Lie down, I’ll get Vesemir.”

“I’m fine, there’s no injury.”

“Humour me,” Eskel said, handed his plank over to Jaskier, and left. Jaskier stood with the steaming plate in his hands in the middle of the room, unsure what to do.

“Eat before it gets cold,” Geralt said. He was sitting on the bed, appearing alert again, although tired. Jaskier sat down next to him and placed the plank on his knees. Geralt glared at him until he picked up the fork he hadn’t noticed before and started shoveling the stew in his mouth.

“I had hoped that wouldn’t happen here,” Geralt said quietly. “Stupid.”

“Maybe they can help you?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said and ran his hand through his hair, messing up his half ponytail. “This isn’t some sort of witcher thing that happens to us all. I just… I don’t know.”

Jaskier sat still, hardly daring to breathe. He was finally starting to see a crack in the impassive armour Geralt had been wrapping himself in since they realised something was wrong with him. He’d been mostly nonchalant, as if his failing body didn’t concern him at all. The anguish he must be living with every day was starting to shine through, and Jaskier didn’t want to stop it from emerging. As little as he wanted to see Geralt break, it was better to get it out, share the fear with him instead of pretending it wasn’t there. He lifted his hand, about to put it on Geralt’s thigh for silent support, when the door opened.

“Vesemir,” Geralt said and nodded at the man who entered. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was built like a brick wall. His hair was grey, but unlike Geralt, he’d earned the colour through prolonged hardship and advanced age. Here was someone who had seen more than Jaskier could even imagine, but all requests for stories were far from his mind.

“Eskel told me you’ve come wounded.”

“Incorrect,” Geralt said and glared at Eskel. He held the gaze until Geralt lowered his eyes. “Something’s wrong though.”

“Report,” Vesemir said. Jaskier smiled despite the somber situation when he felt Geralt sit up straighter by his side.

“I’m losing control,” Geralt said. “And it’s getting worse.”

“Reflexes?”

“Deteriorating.”

“Hey, that’s what Nenneke said!” Jaskier interjected. Three pairs of yellow eyes turned on him, not dissimilar to a wolfpack. Jaskier was used to commanding the attention of a room full of less than enthusiastic audiences with utter confidence, but he found himself shrinking in front of the witchers. Not because he feared them, although he was suddenly acutely aware of how fragile humans were. “The… reflexes.”

“Malady of the White Wolverine,” Vesemir said. “Incurable. Progressive. Fatal.”

Silence fell. Jaskier felt his pulse quicken. Every word Vesemir said was like a stab through his heart. There had to be a mistake. This could not be real.

“What is that?” Eskel asked. “Why have we never heard of it?”

“Because there was never the need to know. Only Geralt was at risk and it seemed like he’d be spared.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said. “I don’t mean to intrude or anything, but would it be rude to ask for more information?”

Geralt had yet to say a single word. Were it not for the lost look in his eyes, Jaskier would’ve thought him frozen.

“The White Wolverine was a second generation witcher. He was like Geralt, taken through the Trials twice, mutated further than the others. He died of the same affliction.”

“And nothing can be done for it? Even back then, when the keep was at its strongest? With all the mages and alchemists working together? Nothing?” Eskel asked, with more heat in his voice than Jaskier had heard from him yet.

“There was a potion, a superior version of the one they started using in the Trials as a stabilising agent after the White Wolverine’s passing. But it’s lost now, like all our Trial recipes.”

“Wouldn’t they have given it to Geralt after his extended Trials? Why is this happening now?”

“The effect of the potion must be wearing off, I don’t know. I’m just the fencing instructor, as you well know, I have no knowledge of the Trials beyond any average witcher.”

“Yes, well, there aren’t any average witchers left. It’s just us and evidently we know nothing at all.” Eskel sounded bitter. By the strength of his reaction, Jaskier guessed he and Geralt were close.

“You knew?” Geralt asked, very quietly, keeping his eyes on the floor. “You knew this would happen to me, and you never told me?”

“What would you have done with the knowledge?” Vesemir asked in return. “Count the days until you’re too feeble to hold a sword? You always knew how a witcher’s path would end, this changes nothing.”

Jaskier found himself blinking back tears. He tried to tell himself that the men in the room cared deeply about each other, even if they didn’t allow their emotions on the surface, or to interfere with what they considered logic. Had he not been controlling himself in the unfamiliar environment, he would’ve been raging on his friend’s behalf.

“How long do I have?” Geralt asked. He didn’t look at anyone. Jaskier’s heart twisted in his chest at the dejected tone of his voice.

“The White Wolverine went fast after he started having seizures. You haven’t had those yet, have you?”

“No,” Geralt said, at the same time as Jaskier said: “Yes. On the way here, in the cave.”

There was nothing to say after that. Geralt excused himself and left, and Eskel followed him out. Jaskier feared for a moment that Vesemir would stay and talk to him, but he only opened a hidden cupboard door and pointed at the logs inside. He exited without a word, and Jaskier was left alone in the cold. He dug out his flint from the bag Geralt had brought him, and went to build a fire. The flames swam in his eyes, view obscured by streaming tears. He took off his shoes and cloak and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over his head. He wanted to be with Geralt, but no one had told him where his room was.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier eventually fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, despite his agitated state. He woke up obscenely late, finding that it was already light outside. Or as light as it got in early winter. He hadn’t even noticed that there was a window in his room the previous night. He forced himself out of bed and peeked through it. The view was towards the inner courtyard, but a tree blocked him effectively. He thought it odd that it had been left to grow so close to the wall, but perhaps cutting it down was another task that had been neglected due to so few people manning the keep.

Jaskier turned away from the window. His fire had burned down during the night but he couldn’t be bothered to relight it. He’d probably spend the day getting to know the castle and its inhabitants better, leaving him too busy to maintain a steady blaze. Eskel had told him to stay in his room the previous night, but he’d mentioned nothing about the morning. No one had come by or told him where to go for his basic needs like getting breakfast or water, leaving Jaskier with a rather urgent dilemma. He grappled with the question for a while, but finally settled on solving the problem himself, rather than waiting for someone to come rescue him.

Jaskier wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and opened the door. He was fairly sure he should turn right to go the same way they had come, but not fully certain. He hadn’t gotten a proper look at the keep in the darkness, but it had left the impression of being vast. Jaskier hesitated, but the desire to wash his face and take a piss won. Following the corridor, he soon reached a point where it crossed another one. Looking in each direction gave no hints as to where they could lead to. Choosing blindly, Jaskier took the one leading left, guessing that it might be against the outer wall and thus he should reach an exit eventually. Emboldened by his fragile logic, Jaskier hurried along, passing other intersections and ignoring them. Until his way was blocked by a locked door.

“Brilliant. But I’m not lost. You can’t be lost if you’ve gone straight the whole time. Except that one turn I took… to the left? Or right? Doesn’t matter, I shall recognise it when I see it.”

Jaskier felt slightly nervous as he hurried along. He thought he’d been careful finding his way, but doubt was starting to intrude upon his mind. The corridor was poorly lit and lacked any distinguishing features. He couldn’t tell if he was close to the intersection or not.

“Positive thinking! It’s just around the corner. Wait, did I pass any corners coming here? I don’t think so. Yet here is one.”

Jaskier fell silent and stopped. He was certain that the corridor he’d followed had been straight. Yet now he was stood in front of a sharp turn towards the left. He felt chills run down his spine as he realised he was lost. Instead of taking initiative and being helpful, he had managed to make a nuisance of himself and was in need of rescuing. And preferably soon, his throat was dry and he really needed to relieve himself.

“Hello! Can anyone hear me? I may have gone a bit astray!”

No one answered. There were no proper windows he could peek out of, only narrow slits high near the ceiling that let in light but were unreachable for him. Jaskier continued walking, convinced he couldn’t get lost any worse, but he might accidentally find his way outside. Any stairs leading down would be a step in the right direction. Ideally, he’d find his way back to his room and slip in before anyone realised he’d gone exploring. At least there was nothing dangerous in his path, just stone corridors and dust.

Jaskier turned another corner and immediately jumped back, accompanied by a startled cry. In front of him, the corridor ended abruptly. A huge portion of the castle was missing, leaving nothing between him and the outside world. After he’d calmed down from the scare, Jaskier looked down. He could see the valley directly below them, indicating that the castle was at the edge of a cliff. He tried not to imagine how long the drop to the bottom was. Feeling the pressure in his bladder, Jaskier opened his trousers. He felt awkward pissing out of the castle, but he’d rather do it there than in one of the corridors, and judging by how utterly lost he was, he’d be roaming them for a while yet.

After he finished relieving himself, he suddenly realised he could hear voices. He didn’t dare to lean out of the hole to see if the courtyard was visible, so he drew his lungs full and utilised his impressive vocal capacity.

“Hellooo! Can anyone hear me?!”

Birds took flight from somewhere below him. He waited, holding his breath.

“Bard?” someone asked. Jaskier thought he recognised the voice as Vesemir’s. He cringed. He would’ve greatly preferred Eskel, he seemed much more understanding of human needs.

“Up here,” Jaskier hollered. Soon he saw Vesemir’s head appear from behind a tree at the side of the castle. The look on his face wasn’t angry, it was disappointed.

“I believe you were instructed not to wander around.”

“I was, and I’m sorry for causing trouble. I was heeding nature’s very urgent call and took a wrong turn or two. If you could instruct me how to get down, I’d be much obliged,” Jaskier said, trying to be charming. The unimpressed look on Vesemir’s face told him he was wasting his efforts.

“Just stay there,” Vesemir said and disappeared from view. Jaskier took a few steps back, not trusting the broken masonry at the edge of the destroyed wall. He backtracked until he couldn’t feel the draught so acutely, and sat down to wait. The stones were cold and he changed his position frequently, not finding a way to sit that was comfortable.

As time passed, he was starting to suspect that Vesemir was going to leave him there as a punishment. He knew how quickly witchers could move when they wanted to, crossing the keep shouldn’t have taken this long, surely. Jaskier shuddered with the cold and decided he’d waited long enough. As a fragile human, he’d freeze to death soon if he didn’t move. Bolstered by his survival instinct, Jaskier stood up and started following the corridor again. He swore that rather than pick a random direction, he’d stop if he reached an intersection. Soon enough, he saw one ahead and started looking down to see if there was anything more comfortable to sit on than cold stone. There wasn’t. He leaned against the wall, intent on waiting there, and fell through.

Jaskier screamed as he fell, a short burst of vocalisation before he hit the ground. He stayed where he was and coughed, trying to catch his breath and to understand what had just happened. He saw a hole in the stone ceiling above him, and lots of dancing dust particles in the air. When a small pebble fell, he quickly rolled away from its path in case it would be followed by more substantial rocks. As he turned, he saw that he was in a small room with no windows. Enough light was coming through from the corridor above that he could make out the limits of the space, but little else. He thought he saw bookcases lining the walls and a table and a chair in the middle, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I told you to stay still,” Vesemir said, his voice coming from above. Jaskier jumped and looked up. Not one but three witchers were looking down at him, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim corridor.

“He’s too curious for his own good,” Geralt said. Jaskier wanted to protest, but decided he’d better be on his best behaviour for now.

“Err, I got cold,” he said instead.

“Better cold than dead,” Eskel pointed out. “Now do you understand how dangerous it is to explore the keep?”

“I do. Sorry. Can you get me out of here, wherever I am?”

“I’ve never seen this room before,” Eskel said. He leaned further in through the hole and looked around. “There’s no obvious entrance.”

“That can’t be right, let me see,” Geralt said and squeezed in next to him.

“Are you two trying to break the floor?” Vesemir asked, prompting the others to step back. Jaskier couldn’t help but grin. He could imagine the kind of troublemakers Geralt and Eskel must’ve been when they were young.

“I’ve never seen this room before either,” the old witcher said as he too leaned in and looked around. “But now is not the time to explore it, we have chores to finish first.”

Geralt offered his hand and Jaskier reached up to take it, surprised by how easily Geralt pulled him out. Vesemir led them down, confusing Jaskier’s sense of direction after the first two turns. He would definitely not be coming back on his own, which was a shame since the secret room had piqued his interest. A mysterious chamber that had been lost for years and he had rediscovered.

They reached a large room with a gigantic fireplace along one wall. Judging by the cluttered table close to the hearth, the several chairs around it, and the shelf filled with various bottles above it, this was a common area that was in active use. Jaskier’s curious mind was immediately drawn to the shelf, but Vesemir pointed him towards a door on the opposite side.

“Kitchen’s there, help yourself, and clean up after.” He turned and left the room, followed by Geralt. Jaskier felt a bit forlorn, but at least Eskel had stayed with him.

“They were in the middle of a pretty heavy discussion when you interrupted,” Eskel said quietly. Jaskier’s excitement over the secret chamber vanished in an instant. They had behaved so normally that he hadn’t thought about the previous night’s revelations. There had to be a rift between Geralt and his mentor. One they had hopefully been in the process of trying to fix when he’d so idiotically gotten himself lost.

“Are they okay?” he asked.

“Logically, Geralt understands that withholding information from him regarding his fate was Vesemir’s way of protecting him.”

“And emotionally?” Jaskier asked.

Eskel shrugged. Jaskier didn’t know him well, but he thought he could see a shadow around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“None of my business, I know. I shall just go grab something and stop making trouble. Err, can I take whatever I find or is there something I shouldn’t touch?”

“Everything there is safe. As long as you can be trusted with knives.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure whether Eskel was joking or not, but he laughed anyway, welcoming the potential attempt to lighten the mood. He could handle feeding himself, that was familiar and comforting even, the routine of cutting a piece of bread for himself and brewing some tea. He smelled the leaves he found very thoroughly until he was sure they weren’t some highly toxic witcher plants. The last thing anyone needed now was him poisoning himself.

Jaskier finished his breakfast and went outside, taking the route Eskel had described to him. The sun was peeking out from behind clouds, a tiny ray of light illuminating the otherwise grey scene. Vesemir was doing something with a pile of leather in a small open-sided hut by the wall, while Geralt and Eskel sparred. Jaskier stopped just outside the door to watch them. The fluid movements were almost too quick for him to catch. Had they been going full speed, he would’ve seen nothing but blurs. As it was, he got to admire two witchers dancing with each other, all grace and purpose. He could see the poetry in motion, how to attach words to the curves of the blades as they descended and twirled, how the sunlight caught Geralt’s white hair, how the look of determination blazed in Eskel’s golden eyes. He could’ve spent the rest of the day watching them, but suddenly all movement ceased.

“Did I go too hard on you?” Eskel asked. He was looking at Geralt’s sword, lying on the ground.

“I’m fine,” Geralt growled and bent down to pick up his weapon. He needed two tries before he had it in his grasp.

Jaskier pressed his lips together to keep from saying anything. To see someone as physically capable as Geralt falter this badly hurt. Especially since he knew that protecting others was Geralt’s life. He knew nothing else, he was made for no other purpose. If his condition worsened to the point where he could no longer fight monsters, Jaskier wasn’t sure if Geralt could adapt to a different kind of life, one where he lived only for himself. It was hugely unfair, yet there was nothing to be done about it. And it killed him, to feel so helpless.

Geralt and Eskel continued training, but even Jaskier could tell Eskel was going easy on Geralt, making his movements slow and large. He probably needed to make sure he could stop himself if Geralt suddenly couldn’t respond to his attacks. Jaskier didn’t want to watch any longer and headed towards Vesemir instead.

“Hi. I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay here,” he said. The old witcher nodded.

“Geralt vouched for your trustworthiness. We’re short on workers anyway.”

“It must be a struggle to keep the castle from crumbling. How can I help? I may not have your strength, but I’m more than willing to do my part.”

“What are you good at?” Vesemir asked, eyeing Jaskier’s body with a thoughtful look on his face. Jaskier stood up straight and tried to puff up his chest, but he knew he wouldn’t impress anyone with his modest muscles.

“Music, poetry, arts. I can read and remember and study effectively. I realise those are not skills that are particularly helpful here, but those are what I have to offer. Other than that, I can carry and haul and cook and sew as well as any average fellow.”

“You can be in charge of our meals from now on then. And there are some textiles in need of mending. I will show you later.”

“Excellent, thank you. Out of personal interest, is there a library here?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t think witchers would have devoted their time to the finer arts, but he was burning with curiosity to see what they wrote regarding monsters and the world. Were such things allowed to him and not considered trade secrets, of course.

“There was. The biggest one of all the schools. But alas, it was fully destroyed in the attack. Not a single tome survived.”

Jaskier needed to take a few deep breaths in the face of such a tragedy. The loss of knowledge, of culture and history, on such a scale. His heart ached for it.

“Oh! The room I fell into! It had bookshelves!” he suddenly remembered. Vesemir raised his eyebrows.

“Would it be okay if I went to explore there some evening, on my own time?” Jaskier asked.

“Not alone. You may catalogue the books there, but not read them. Is this acceptable?”

Jaskier saw little choice but to agree. He was an outsider, after all. It was perfectly reasonable to ask him not to peruse books that did not belong to him. His overwhelming curiosity bristled, but he would keep his word. Perhaps as the months passed, Vesemir might come to trust him enough to allow him to read something. Jaskier could be patient when the situation called for it, even if it went against his nature.

“We’re done,” Eskel said. He’d just narrowly missed hitting Geralt in the face when he couldn’t get his sword up in time. Jaskier looked at him and bit his lip. He still hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Geralt alone after learning that his condition was fatal. It still felt surreal to him, not something he could easily accept. Geralt wasn’t showing any signs of cracking, but he looked grim. He turned on his heel and slipped inside the keep without saying a word. Jaskier considered leaving him alone, but he needed to talk to him. He followed, reaching the door just in time to see which corridor Geralt took.

“Geralt! Wait up,” he said as he jogged to catch up. Geralt didn’t turn or stop, but he did slow down.

“Is this where your room is?” Jaskier asked as they started climbing a spiral staircase. Geralt nodded. He led them halfway up a round tower, opening the first door on the third landing. They entered, and Jaskier looked around. The room wasn’t as empty as his, but still very sparse. There was a bed, three large windows, a chest at the end of the bed, and a short shelf hugging the wall. On it there were books and several small glass vials. They were all empty.

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier asked, knowing that the question might irritate Geralt, but needing to know.

“I’m not an invalid,” Geralt said. “I can still function.”

“But not indefinitely.”

“Do you not think I know that?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just hard to digest,” Jaskier said. He sat down on the bed while Geralt paced the curved edge of the room. “Does it feel that bad? Like you’re dying?”

“No. I feel normal most of the time.”

“Maybe they’re wrong, maybe you won’t deteriorate that much. Maybe you have years still in you.” Jaskier tried to keep his tone light, to offer some genuine hope. Geralt didn’t slow his pacing.

“Even if I did, do you think I want to live like this? I can’t hold my fucking sword reliably, what good am I to anyone?” Geralt said heatedly, just shy of shouting. Jaskier stayed silent. He’d rarely heard Geralt raise his voice.

“I always knew I’d be torn to pieces by a monster, I just never thought it would happen this soon, or from within. I -- I wanted…” Geralt trailed off. He stopped in front of a window and leaned his hands on the sill.

“More time?” Jaskier asked.

“Maybe if I’d known from the start that this would await me, I’d have done some things differently. I don’t know, can you even prepare for something like this?”

“Still, it would’ve been good to have some warning. Are you angry at Vesemir?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said. His shoulders slumped. “Obviously it wasn’t his call to withhold the information from me initially, as a fencing teacher, he wasn’t part of the higher levels of our organisation that made the decisions regarding the kids, but it’s been years since he became the most senior member. He could’ve told me.”

Jaskier got up and came to stand behind Geralt. He didn’t dare to touch, as much as he wanted to, not when Geralt was this wound up.

“Do you know why he didn’t?” he asked.

“Says it was to protect me. To keep my focus on the path. To not abandon my profession.”

“That sounds cruel,” Jaskier said.

“No, it’s our way. I understand.”

“You don’t have to like it though.”

“Do I have a choice? I won’t step off the path voluntarily, it’s mine to tread, no matter what. Until the end.”

Jaskier studied Geralt’s posture. He was tense, back straight, but his shoulders were hunched. His head was held high, but his fingers were clenched tightly. He was a mess of conflicting emotions that reflected on the surface, but which Jaskier couldn’t read in their entirety. He wanted so badly to take the pain from Geralt, to ease his burden in any way he could.

“You’re not alone,” Jaskier whispered. “No matter how this goes, you’re home now, and I will stay here as long as you’ll have me. You’ve helped me so many times I can’t even keep count, let me help you now.”

“You’ve already tolerated my weakness for too long,” Geralt said. His hands kept squeezing the stone.

“I’m your friend. I want to be there for you. Has it ever been a burden for you to spend time with me?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier wanted to think he was considering the question, seeing the reciprocity he was offering. He cautiously put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and left it there, and Geralt didn’t shake it off.

“You’re not a drooling idiot though, someone who needs to be helped with the basic functions before long.”

“Many have described me as such,” Jaskier countered, eliciting a huff of amusement from Geralt. “But please don’t call yourself that. Your body is failing, not your mind. And even if your mind does as well, you’re still valuable.”

“You spout such nonsense.”

“And I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me.”

They stood quietly side by side, looking through the window. Clouds covered the sky, hanging dark over the mountains. Jaskier was close enough to feel Geralt’s warmth. He wanted to wrap his arm around Geralt’s shoulders, but knew the gesture would not be appreciated. His need to give physical comfort in order to soothe himself was great, tempting him to stay in Geralt’s space for longer than would be acceptable. Abandoning excessive closeness as a comforting strategy, he resorted to distraction.

“I got permission to explore the secret room, would you like to accompany me there tonight?”

“I heard, and sure. Vesemir likes you.”

“How can you tell?” Jaskier asked. He had gotten the opposite impression.

“He gave you permission, didn’t he,” Geralt remarked. He appeared perkier, his posture more upright. Either the distraction had worked, or Geralt had consciously pushed his feelings aside. Jaskier suspected the latter, Geralt was excellent at compartmentalising. But if he had decided the matter was closed for now, Jaskier would follow his example. He didn’t want to internalise the knowledge that his best friend would deteriorate and die, and there was nothing he could do about it. Ignoring it was easier. He sniffed and forced a smile on his face, focusing on the time they had left. And the vague hope that something would come up and change the situation.

“I’m looking forwards to studying the books there. Do witchers write poetry? I’d be absolutely chuffed to find some!”

“We do not.”

“That’s a shame. It’d be a great way to pass the time on the path.”

Geralt did not look impressed. He turned away from the window and headed for the door. Jaskier followed, determined to memorise the route as they left the tower. Geralt took them to the kitchen and proceeded to show Jaskier where everything was. The stores were meager, even with the additions they had brought with them. A winter of luxury wasn’t ahead of them, but they’d have enough to eat, especially since there would be fresh game whenever the witchers went hunting. It wasn’t a bad situation, Jaskier might’ve even enjoyed it, had the constant worry about Geralt not been looming over him.


	4. Chapter 4

Life settled into a regular rhythm at Kaer Morhen. The days were spent taking care of the keep by repairing, building, cleaning and renewing. Jaskier noted that Geralt and Vesemir seemed to be mending the rift between them as well, growing closer again, though Jaskier had to strain his observational skills to notice the subtle changes between two such non-demonstrative men. If Eskel hadn’t been so different, he would’ve assumed strict control of one’s emotions was a fundamental witcher trait that couldn’t be overcome.

They divided the duties around the castle. Vesemir had a grand plan for how the repairs should proceed and he directed the others in the various tasks, including Jaskier more frequently as he proved himself capable. Eskel preferred to hunt in addition to his duties while the horses were Geralt’s responsibility, and Jaskier kept everyone fed and clothed.

In the evenings, they’d either all sit together in the common room, or Jaskier and Geralt would explore the secret room. It had become their special project, and Jaskier enjoyed the time they spent there together immensely. He usually handled the books while Geralt went through everything else, studying the items scattered around the room as well as the walls and every hidden nook and cranny. So far the books he’d catalogued were about monsters and alchemical principles, basic stuff that had been in the main library as well. The artefacts in the room were alchemical tools and ingredient containers, the contents long since expired. Nothing out of the ordinary had come up yet that would explain why the room had been concealed.

The days grew shorter and the nights colder. They saw very little of the sun as it was increasingly hidden behind clouds that occasionally dropped more snow on them. No other witcher managed to return before travel became all but impossible. Jaskier was a little bit disappointed since he’d been eager to meet everyone. He also suspected, though he didn’t say anything, that this winter was probably their last chance to see Geralt alive.

His best friend continued to deteriorate. In the autumn, he could go several days in a row without incident. Now he barely got through one without something impeding him. His frustration grew as his body continued to fail him, and they all desperately wanted to help him, but there was very little they could do. Vesemir spent more time meditating, trying to recall long-forgotten memories of the past that might be of use. Eskel took long hunting trips and kept them well-fed, although Geralt’s appetite had waned drastically. On some days he had trouble swallowing anything other than the thin porridge Jaskier had mastered.

Jaskier tried to keep everyone’s spirits up. He often played and sang in the evenings after they’d shared a meal, and told stories throughout the day while performing their tasks. His hope diminished, but since Geralt refused to let his smooth facade crack, Jaskier kept his despair hidden too, surrendering to his emotions only in the privacy of his bedchamber.

*****

Jaskier couldn’t sleep. He’d gone to his room early since he’d felt tired, leaving the others to sit together in the common area, but after hours of lying in bed, sleep still continued to elude him. He considered it ridiculous how he could be so tired yet still wide awake. And he was getting progressively more thirsty. When the dryness of his throat made him cough, he sat up and got out of bed. He threw on his cloak and shoes and grabbed a candle he lit with the glowing embers in the fireplace. He knew the route from his room to the kitchen by heart now and probably could’ve navigated the halls in the dark, but he chose not to risk it. The stones weren’t always even, especially on the stairs. Not a problem for witchers, but a mere human had to take precautions.

Jaskier reached the kitchen and sated his thirst. Their bucket of drinking water was almost empty, that would have to be filled first thing in the morning. Jaskier considered doing it right away since he was already up, but decided he couldn’t be bothered. He did go outside to relieve himself though, grimacing at how cold it was. On the way back, the shortest route to his room took him by the common area and he noticed that the fire was still burning. Considering the lateness of the hour, it should’ve gone out already. Jaskier decided to take advantage of it and warm his freezing fingers while the fire was still blazing. As he stepped into the room, he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Geralt? Are you alright?” he asked. Geralt was sitting on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. He was hugging his legs tightly, shoulders hunched inwards, head leaned on his knees. Even from the distance, Jaskier could see he was trembling.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Jaskier asked as he came to sit next to Geralt. There was no verbal response, but Geralt acknowledged his presence by lifting his head enough to glance at him before lowering it again. Jaskier got comfortable on the rug and waited. He tossed a log into the fire, prompting the fading flames to rise. After a long moment of silence, Geralt finally spoke.

“C-can’t stop shaking,” he said. He sounded exhausted, and not just physically. Jaskier felt a stab in his chest. If he could make this go away, he would, no matter the cost.

“Can I hold you?” he asked. Geralt hesitated. “If you don’t want to or if it would hurt you, that’s okay. I just want to offer what comfort I can.”

“You s-shouldn’t waste your effort,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier understood. Geralt wanted to be held, but he didn’t consider himself worthy of such a luxury. This was a dance they had engaged in before, over the most inconsequential things. But Jaskier would have none of the hedging tonight. He moved behind Geralt and put his hands on his shoulders, not going further until he saw how Geralt would take it. The tense muscles beneath his hands relaxed, as much as they could against the tremors continuously running through them. Jaskier slipped his hands lower, sliding along Geralt’s arms until he reached his legs. Geralt seemed to have no intention of unfolding himself, so Jaskier placed his hands on his shins, enveloping Geralt fully in his embrace. He could hear his breath hitching in the silence of the room.

“You can lean on me,” Jaskier said. For once, Geralt obeyed without protest, resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. Slowly, he started to relax into the position, unclenching his grip from his legs and allowing them to lie on Jaskier’s thighs. He was still shaking, Jaskier could feel it against his body, but he tried to ignore it. He cradled Geralt in his arms, taking his full weight, keeping them both upright. Geralt’s cheek felt cool against Jaskier’s neck, despite the fire in front of them.

“How long have you been here?” Jaskier asked. He hadn’t seen any hints of light in the cloudy sky, but dawn couldn’t be far off.

“All night,” Geralt whispered. Jaskier closed his eyes. He did not want to consider the possibility that Geralt had been feeling too poorly to handle the stairs up to his room and the other witchers hadn’t noticed and had left him alone. Geralt wouldn’t have said anything of course, damn his stubbornness, if such was indeed the case.

“I think it’s time to go to bed. Can you walk?” Jaskier hated that he had to ask. Hated that his friend was suffering so much. Hated that he couldn’t help.

“What’s the point,” Geralt whispered. Had his mouth not been right by Jaskier’s ear, he wouldn’t have heard. “Shouldn’t I just end this travesty, wouldn’t that be more fair?”

“Towards whom?” Jaskier asked, suddenly angry but trying to stay calm. “Are you really ready to give up? Do those who lo- those who care about you mean nothing?”

Jaskier felt Geralt flinch. Or maybe it was just a stronger tremor running through him.

“I’m so tired of this. Why should I prolong it?” Geralt asked. There was a new quality in his voice, one that Jaskier had never heard before. When he felt how tense Geralt was, how tightly he was pressing his lips together, he realised that he was close to tears. He’d never witnessed Geralt cry before. And in his arms, when he whispered to Geralt why he should keep going, how precious he was to him, how much he cared about him, the final defenses fell. Geralt sobbed like a child, someone unused to shedding tears, wholly helpless against the assault of emotion taking him over. He clutched Jaskier’s arms like his life depended on it, heaving breaths and sniffing and shaking worse than before. And Jaskier held him, rocking them slightly, humming softly, bearing the unbearable.

Once Geralt’s emotional upheaval subsided, Jaskier looked at the windows on the eastern side of the room. It was lighter, but there was still some night left.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said. Geralt nodded, too spent to protest. Jaskier guided Geralt’s arm over his shoulders and stood up, pulling Geralt up with him. Geralt hung almost limp against him and Jaskier decided to try something he had never tried before. Geralt’s poor appetite and reduced activity had resulted in him losing weight, and he had been quite slim to begin with, although with wiry muscles. Jaskier was displeased with how easily he could gather up Geralt’s legs and bodily lift him. It was convenient, but it still hurt Jaskier to see his strong friend so diminished.

“Just relax,” he said. Geralt obeyed, twitching slightly against him. The tower where Geralt’s room was seemed unreachable, but Jaskier’s was only a single flight of stairs away. He carried Geralt there and laid him on the bed. Jaskier removed their shoes and his cloak and settled on the opposite edge of the bed. He wouldn’t have minded being closer, but he allowed Geralt to have the control. If he wanted his space, he would have it, being as he couldn’t be in his own bed. Jaskier was starting to surrender to the pull of sleep when he felt Geralt snuggle into his side. He wasn’t sure how awake Geralt was, but he answered his search for comfort by putting his arm around him. They fell asleep in each other’s embrace, warm under the covers, far from the outside world.

*****

They passed midwinter and the shortest day of the year. Their Yule celebration was extremely humble, but heartfelt. Jaskier conjured up something of a feast with their waning supplies. Vesemir initially protested such careless waste, but at the end of the evening, jolly from ale and white gull, he complimented Jaskier on the spread. The following day they did nothing sensible, just lazed around the keep and traded stories.

After the darkest day, daylight started to slowly increase. There were some extremely cold weeks, but they saw more of the sun with the clouds becoming sparser. The spring should’ve been approaching with renewed hope and the revitalisation of nature, but for Geralt, the future seemed to grow dimmer with each passing day. Jaskier worried about his melancholy mood, terrified that Geralt would grow too tired and end his life prematurely, but he seemed determined to keep up the fight as long as he could. They never talked about what he’d said during the night in the common room, but he hoped it had had an effect. Even if it was selfish of him to want to cling to his best friend, no matter how rough things got for him.

A major milestone on Geralt’s road to ruination came after a particularly bad week when even getting out of bed was a chore. Geralt still dragged his shivering body to their shared breakfast every day, spending more time spaced out than eating, prompting several concerned glances from everyone around the table. At the end of the week, Vesemir formally declared that Geralt was relieved from all keep maintenance and repair duty, and that he wouldn’t care for the horses anymore. Geralt sulked for two days after that, but he admitted to the wisdom of the decision. His body was no longer reliable, to the point where the others weren’t comfortable leaving him alone for any length of time. After a night that he spent spasming and shaking on the floor of his room, he moved permanently in with Jaskier, not entirely out of his own volition, but without much protest.

Vesemir learned nothing useful from his extensive meditation sessions. He remembered that the other witcher schools had aided them in researching the Malady of the White Wolverine in the past, but since it was specific to the extended wolf school mutations, they were on their own and had to find the answer from their own sources. Jaskier discovered more advanced alchemical books from the secret room, but nothing concerning the Trials. Eskel, Vesemir and Geralt read them all anyway, hoping there would be some reference they’d missed, but nothing turned up. Time continued to march on mercilessly, and they had little to show of their progress.

*****

“I found one! A legitimate book of witcher poetry! Can you believe it!” Jaskier hollered as he burst into their room. Geralt was in bed, not having felt like joining Jaskier in the secret room that afternoon. The days when he didn’t get up at all were becoming more frequent.

“I cannot. Are you sure?” Geralt asked. He sat up, looking tired and rather ridiculous with his hair sticking up in every direction. Jaskier grinned at him and sat down next to him, only barely resisting the urge to tousle his messy hair in his excitement.

“Look, it’s mind-numbingly boring and repetitive, but it can only be described as poetry,” he said and opened the small book in his lap. Geralt leaned over his shoulder to look at it, twitching almost rhythmically against Jaskier’s arm where they touched.

“‘My love, it grows stronger, like a whisper of honeysuckle, the caress of a noonwraith, a shout of celandine, the kick of a cockatrice,’” Geralt read.

“It’s not very good,” Jaskier said with a smile, “but it draws on the everyday experience of the witcher. Write what you know about, as the amateurs say. But you can almost hear the voice of the lonely witcher there. It’s so genuine, so directly from the heart.”

“It’s nonsense,” Geralt said and laid down. Jaskier pulled the blanket higher on his shoulder and turned the page.

“I’m going to read it again. Are you thirsty or hungry?”

“No.”

“Have you had anything today?”

“Drank tea.”

“Suppose that’s good enough. Poke me if you need anything,” Jaskier said. He got comfortable against the headboard and held the book up. Geralt rolled over, coming to rest right by Jaskier’s thigh, close enough that he could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin. Jaskier glanced down at him and brushed a lock of hair off his face. Geralt appeared to be asleep already. Jaskier let him be and focused on the book.

_My love, it grows steadier, like a caress of ranogrin, the kick of a vesper, the soul of a zeugl, a shout of blowball._

_My love, it grows to a light in darkness, like the kick of a vesper, the heart of a noonwraith, a caress of hellebore, the jaw of a kikimore, the cry of the white gull._

Jaskier read on, astonished at how formulaic the poems were, and how repetitive. He tried to decipher the pattern that was starting to emerge. The author seemed to describe the strength of his emotions on a scale that went from a whisper and a caress to a kick in intensity. His analogues centred around plants and monsters, almost exclusively. Some animals were mentioned too, like cats and white seagulls.

Jaskier paused. He’d just heard white seagulls mentioned somewhere. He thought about gleaming eyes and connected the dots. White gull was the alcoholic beverage the witchers favoured, which doubled as a potions base.

“Mother of mine! This can’t be true! Geralt, wake up!” Jaskier shouted and shook Geralt.

“What?” Geralt asked, only half awake.

“Geralt! Tell me the ingredients of a witcher elixir! Any will do!”

“Stop shouting. Why do you want to know?”

“Never mind that now, just tell me! Sorry,” Jaskier finally lowered his volume, but his heart was still pounding in his chest with his potential discovery.

“Swallow takes one part dwarven spirit, five pinches of celandine, one slice of drowner brain.”

“That’s it! Geralt, these aren’t poems, these are potion recipes!”

“Show me,” Geralt said and sat up. Jaskier handed him the book, but his hands were shaking too badly to turn the pages. Before he could get frustrated, Jaskier held the book for him, turning the pages as indicated.

“I don’t know these,” Geralt finally said after they’d gone through the entire book.

“Does that mean --” Jaskier started but didn’t know how to finish.

“Show them to Vesemir,” Geralt said. Jaskier jumped out of the bed, waiting for Geralt to follow him. When he didn’t, Jaskier scooped him up along with the blanket and started running down the corridor. Ironically enough, as Geralt grew weaker, Jaskier had gotten stronger, taking on many of the duties previously assigned to Geralt. He raced to the common room, hoping to find the others there.

“What the -- is he -- ?” Eskel asked. They’d been cleaning their weapons with Vesemir, but Jaskier’s sudden appearance had them on their feet, swords at the ready.

“Not dead yet,” Geralt said while Jaskier caught his breath. He put Geralt down on the rug in front of the fire and leaned his hands on his thighs.

“Then what’s going on?”

“We found something major,” Jaskier said, able to talk now. He handed the book over. “Read those as you would a list of ingredients.”

Eskel raised his eyebrows and opened the book. He and Vesemir studied it together for a while.

“These are potions,” Vesemir said. “But I don’t recognise them. This one could be a stronger version of Maribor Forest but it doesn’t quite add up.”

“It tells you what they’re for. The first line: stronger, steadier, light in dark, scent… Do you realise what these correspond to?” Eskel asked.

Vesemir and Geralt were silent in astonishment. Jaskier was confused.

“The Trial potions,” Vesemir said.

“The steady one, that must be the one we need,” Eskel said. He flipped the pages until he found the pertinent poem. “‘Caress of ranogrin, kick of vesper, soul of zeugl, shout of blowball.’”

“So once we figure out the amounts of the ingredients and which parts of the monsters ‘kick’ and ‘soul’ refer to and how to put it all together, we can cure Geralt.”

Vesemir’s words hung in the air. Jaskier hardly dared to breathe, hope slammed into him so profoundly. He looked at Geralt, still sitting on the rug wrapped in his blanket. He appeared utterly stunned. His white hair and colourless skin blended into one, leaving his eyes most prominent. They were widened and aimed at Jaskier, bright in the dim room.

“Get back to the Maribor Forest one, if that’s what it is, maybe we can start unravelling the scale from there,” Eskel suggested. Vesemir nodded and took the book from him. Jaskier went to retrieve a quill and some paper from his room for taking notes. When he returned, all three witchers were sitting at the table, studying the book together. As the most experienced writer, Jaskier took the role of scribe and started putting down what the others dictated. After a couple of hours of pouring over the book, they had a full list of every ingredient, proverbial amount and purpose mentioned within.

“We will stop here,” Vesemir said. Jaskier was about to protest, but Vesemir reminded him of his duty to cook.

“We won’t solve this in one day,” Eskel said, more gently. “And Geralt needs to be put in bed.”

Jaskier raised his gaze from the notes. Geralt was leaning his head on his hand, eyes closed. Eskel deftly picked him up and left the room. Jaskier went to the kitchen, thrumming with the need to move things along as fast as possible, but understanding that the process would take time. They had the solution within their grasp now, but time was the one resource they didn’t have an abundance of. Geralt was slipping further away each day. Jaskier hoped this would motivate him to keep fighting a little bit longer. The cure was possible now, he just needed to keep himself together while they figured it out.

*****

“The soul cannot refer to the heart since the heart is mentioned separately. The same with the brain. The soul is something very specific,” Jaskier said.

“I agree, but what? Zeugls have bodies like rotten potatoes, tentacles, internal organs, venom. Which of those is the soul?” Eskel asked.

They’d been going back and forth over the question for several days. While they’d managed to agree that a shout was a larger measurement than a caress, the precise location of the soul divided them. Both the heart and the brain were likely, yet ruled out by the process of elimination. Jaskier could cite a source for just about any organ or body part as the soul from other works of poetry, but none of it helped them.

“Is there anything that makes a zeugl special? Something that only a witcher would know?” Jaskier asked. He was trying not to get frustrated, but knowing how close they were, and how agonising each passing day was for Geralt, his patience was running thin.

“It’s a unique creature but nothing about it is particularly special. Many monsters produce venom, for example,” Vesemir said.

“I suppose its ability to eat trash and reside in sewage might set it apart. But those are features of the whole, not due to some single specific organ,” Eskel said.

“Does it have feet?” Jaskier suddenly asked.

“No, it’s potato-shaped after all. It has tentacles though,” Eskel suggested. “Do you have something in mind?”

“What if it’s a pun? Soul, sole, as in the bottom of the foot.”

“Could work if it had feet. But would its sole be the bottom of its body or the ends of the tentacles?”

Jaskier groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. They had figured out the relative quantities of the plants, even had them available since they were common enough. The kick of a vesper was also unanimously agreed to mean the powdered femur of a vesper since it was an ingredient in other concoctions too, but the zeugl continued to elude them. They had nothing from one in storage, and they didn’t know what to ask for. They’d sent a message to Lambert with their only remaining pigeon since it was bonded to him, asking him to bring them the vesper powder and a zeugl as soon as he could manage it. They had no guarantee that the bird would reach him, but it was their only hope before spring opened the roads again.

“We shouldn’t fixate on the pun theory too strongly. We have no evidence to support it,” Vesemir said.

“True, all the other ingredients are quite straightforward,” Jaskier said. He liked his theory, but he’d be the first to admit he was grasping in the dark.

“How do you kill a zeugl?” he asked.

“Cut off the head,” Eskel answered, almost automatically, as if reciting a lesson.

“Could that mean that the soul is in the head?”

“Potentially. Or in the torso.”

“Could it be evidence that it’s not in the tentacles at least? Since it doesn’t die from losing one.”

“It could. Unless the pun theory is correct and the poem refers to them.”

“We’re getting nowhere. I’ll go check up on Geralt. Do you need anything?” Jaskier asked.

“We’ll take a break too, stretch our legs,” Vesemir said. Eskel nodded.

Jaskier vacated his spot at the large table in the common room. It was filled with books and slips of paper and parchment and quills and ink pots and half-empty mugs. They’d cross-referenced every single book they’d found in the secret room, and had a working theory on the amounts of the herbs needed. It felt like too little progress, but it was something at least. He entered the kitchen and made some tea. His movements were mechanical, performing the familiar task with little thought. He allowed his mind to wander, hoping to find some insight if he stopped looking directly at the problem.

When the tea was finished, his head remained empty. He took two mugs and went to his room. Geralt was asleep, but woke up easily when Jaskier bothered him.

“Hello. How are you feeling?”

“Wish you’d stop asking that. I’ll let you know if I feel anything other than miserable, agreed?”

“As if you would. Not agreed at all. I’m glad to see you coherent though,” Jaskier said as he handed the mug over. He held onto the top until he felt Geralt take the entire weight. He appeared to be having an unusually good day. He was present enough to be cranky, and had control of his hands.

“Anything new with the recipe?” Geralt asked. He was sipping his tea slowly, but making progress with it. Perhaps Jaskier would try to push some real food on him later.

“It occurred to me that the soul could be a pun. I mean, witchers aren’t entirely incapable of joking, right?”

“Trust the poetaster to consider terrible puns in dire situations.”

Jaskier smiled. He hadn’t heard Geralt insult his profession in a long while. It felt strangely good, as if things were normal.

“Well excuse me for having an imagination. Suppose it would be too much to expect of witchers, though.”

“Besides, zeugls don’t have feet. No soles,” Geralt pointed out. He finished his tea and set the mug on the table by the bed. He managed it in one try.

“Feel like walking a bit?” Jaskier asked. Lately there had been very few days when even suggesting such a feat would’ve occurred to him.

“Actually, I do,” Geralt said, sounding surprised. Jaskier smiled and offered him a hand. Geralt took it and allowed Jaskier to pull him to his feet. He didn’t manage many steps before he was breathing hard, but he didn’t return to the bed yet. Jaskier supported him, taking some of his weight and keeping him in balance, but letting Geralt set the pace and the direction. They walked around the room, passing the mirror Jaskier had found on one of his non-sanctioned exploration trips and hung on the wall. As they reached it on another circuit, he took a quick, automatic glance. He stopped walking so abruptly that Geralt stumbled.

“What?” Geralt asked. He sounded too winded to manage more complicated sentences.

“Eyes are the mirrors of the soul! How many eyes does a zeugl have?”

“Two.”

“Are eyes used in other potions?”

“Some. Not heard zeugl.”

“But they could be? I mean there’s no reason why they couldn’t?”

“Bed.”

“Oh, sorry!” Jaskier directed them to the bed, needing to half-carry Geralt the last few steps. He settled him in and waited while he caught his breath.

“Any eyes can be used fresh or dried or powdered or liquefied. Perfectly common ingredient, even if I’ve never heard of zeugl eyes being used,” Geralt said when he’d rested for a moment. Jaskier nodded eagerly.

“I think we’re onto something. I mean, nothing suggests that it’s specifically the eyes, but my intuition says it’s promising. You’ve heard the saying, right, that eyes mirror the soul?”

Geralt had fallen asleep. Jaskier tucked him in properly and returned to the common room to share his idea with the others. They weren’t convinced, but they also agreed that eyes were not a rare potion ingredient.

“The problem with all our choices is that we can’t test several versions of the potion. We don’t know what the effects could be if we get it wrong, and Geralt isn’t strong enough to fight off toxins,” Vesemir said. They’d been through the same before, but he reminded them whenever Jaskier got too excited over a potential lead.

“I have such a good feeling about the eyes though,” he said. None of their other options had struck him as strongly.

“We cannot do this based on feelings. Logic, science, research.”

“And a bit of luck,” Eskel added. “Wish I could test the potion for him.”

“We’ve been through this. Even if successful, the concoction would have no effect on you, and you’re a witcher in your prime, you’d shake off any adverse reactions easily.”

“I know, it’s just so frustrating. I feel helpless,” Eskel admitted.

Jaskier was always surprised when he heard a witcher refer to his emotions. Talking seemed to come easily to Eskel, and he was much more open than Geralt. They were equally kind, but with Eskel that lied closer to the surface as well. Vesemir, on the other hand, kept his control even tighter than Geralt. Jaskier could never tell what he was thinking, and certainly not what he was feeling.

“We’ll go through the alchemical texts again. Maybe we’ve overlooked some clue,” Vesemir said. Eskel groaned. Jaskier agreed with his sentiment. It felt like they were splashing around in a stagnant pond, not going anywhere, while time was running out for Geralt.

“I guess there’s nothing I can contribute at this point. I’ll go cook,” Jaskier said and went to the kitchen. He had a bony rabbit and a handful of wrinkly potatoes to work with. They would make a serviceable soup, if one wasn’t overly fussed about the lack of seasoning. Spring was steadily approaching, but snow still filled the roads and blocked their path. It was unlikely that any other witcher would visit anytime soon, even if Lambert had received their message.

While the soup simmered, Jaskier went to see how Geralt was doing. Probably just sleeping, but Jaskier didn’t want to wait alone in the kitchen. As the end drew closer, he found himself treasuring every single second he got to spend with Geralt, even if all he did was watch him sleep. He still couldn’t believe that his best friend was dying, despite the evidence he saw every day. He lived in the belief that they’d find the cure on time, no matter how hopeless their efforts felt. He would not allow their fears to become reality.

When Jaskier opened the door, he immediately saw that something wasn’t right. The blanket was on the floor, and Geralt was lying on his stomach with his limbs at awkward angles. The position didn’t look comfortable. Jaskier assumed he’d had a seizure, feeling guilty that he hadn’t been there to help him through it. As he stepped closer, he noticed that Geralt’s face was against the pillow.

“Fuck!” Jaskier shouted and ran the remaining steps. He grabbed Geralt by the shoulder and flipped him over. His lips had a bluish tint, but he was breathing.

“Oh mother of mine,” Jaskier whispered as he sunk to sit on the bed. His heart was pounding so hard he shook with it. Such a stupid mistake. He’d almost lost Geralt because of a completely idiotic oversight that hadn’t even occurred to him as a possibility.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, barely able to produce sound. Geralt was completely out of it, but he was breathing easily now. Jaskier arranged him into a comfortable position on his side, making sure he couldn’t roll over onto his stomach by accident. But of course, if another seizure hit him, he’d have no control of the movements.

“I’m not leaving you alone again, I promise. I will not cut our remaining time even shorter because of my incompetence.”

He picked up the blanket and tucked it snugly around Geralt. He sat on the bed for a long time, just watching Geralt breathe. His heart calmed down eventually, but he still felt uneasy. Not for the first time, he acknowledged that he was wildly out of his depth, trying to do something he was ill-equipped for. He was no healer, he didn’t know how to properly care for someone as helpless as Geralt was now. It had initially been simple, but as his condition worsened, the attention he needed increased. Jaskier buried his face in his hands and fought very hard not to cry.

“Jaskier, your soup’s burning. I salvaged it, but - hey, what’s wrong?” Eskel asked as he stepped into the room.

“Nothing,” Jaskier said and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “No, that’s not true. You need to know.”

He told Eskel what had happened, and they agreed that Geralt couldn’t be left unsupervised anymore. They’d take turns, dividing work and watch duty. Eskel was sorting it out methodically, until he noticed that Jaskier was paying very little attention to him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, with so much compassion in his voice that Jaskier felt tears rise to his eyes again.

“I have to be, don’t I? For the weeks or days that he has left, I’ll be strong.”

“You don’t have to,” Eskel said and sat down next to Jaskier. He put his arm awkwardly around him, reminding Jaskier of Geralt’s first attempts to comfort him when the need arose early in their friendship. He’d gotten better at it over the years, sensing when Jaskier needed physical contact and how to offer it. Jaskier leaned into Eskel’s side and closed his eyes. It felt good to be supported by someone so strong, even if it wasn’t who he missed the most.

“I really am alright. We’re all in this together, and that helps. I’ll delay the emotional response until after… after. I’m in control.”

“If you say so,” Eskel said. “But if you need a shoulder to lean on, come to me. You’ve taken on a lot of responsibility here.”

“He’d do the same for me. He’s my best friend.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Eskel asked. Jaskier flinched.

“Yes. Whatever you think that entails, I do. He’s made my life richer, gives me joy and frustration and challenge and comfort every day. I don’t regret a single moment we’ve spent together.”

“I understand,” Eskel said. Jaskier wondered if he’d had someone in his life who had given him the same, but refrained from asking, fearing it would be too intrusive.

“We’re not going to finish the potion on time, are we?” Jaskier said, very quietly, voicing what he feared was the truth. Eskel didn’t reply. They sat in silence until Vesemir came to inform them that the soup was ruined. Jaskier, who once had claimed to live for the finer delights in life, found he didn’t care at all.


	5. Chapter 5

On a bleak spring morning, with a blizzard raging outside, the door to the keep opened. Jaskier looked up from the book he was reading. He was leaning against the wall next to the fireplace in the common room, with Geralt asleep on his lap. Eskel and Vesemir were at the table, pouring over books as well. Before any of them could get up and go investigate, two figures stepped into the room, carrying something wrapped in a sack between them.

“What a howling bitch of a day!” the shorter of the two exclaimed. Jaskier couldn’t see any of his features under the mass of snow-covered clothing he was wearing. The man stomped further into the room and tossed the thing in the sack down with his companion.

“Lambert! You made it,” Eskel said and stood up to greet the newcomers.

“The message said it was a matter of life or death, so I busted my ass getting this zeugl here. I brought Coën too, for the alchemical dilemma.”

“I could kiss you,” Eskel said, but only hugged the man.

Meanwhile, the other witcher -- Coën -- approached Jaskier and Geralt. His face was hidden behind a furry hat and a voluminous black beard.

“How is he?” he asked. Jaskier glanced down. Geralt had been awake earlier, but he hadn’t known where he was or why he felt so weak. Now he was out again.

“Not good, I’m afraid,” he said. Lambert came to stand in front of him as well, his eyes widening as he took in Geralt’s altered appearance.

“Fucking shit,” he said. Jaskier agreed that his summation of the situation was accurate.

“Show me your work,” Coën said, turning to the others. He shed his outside clothing while they explained what they’d figured out so far. Lambert picked up the sack and said he’d put it outside to keep it fresh. Judging by the smell already emanating from it, it hadn’t been fresh in a long while. Jaskier felt awkward sitting on the floor while everyone else was doing useful things. He put his book down and hugged Geralt closer. They had all the ingredients now. Just a matter of mixing them together in the correct manner.

“I’m starving,” Lambert declared when he returned. “Is anything ready or do I have to empty the sled right away?”

“The sled?” Jaskier asked.

“How’d you think we got here? Flying? I put the doggies in the stable, damned vile creatures that they are.”

“Do they need anything?”

“Got it covered. Could use a hand unloading though.”

Jaskier hesitated. Since the near-suffocation incident, he’d been with Geralt almost constantly. He knew the others were perfectly capable of watching him, but he had trouble leaving him, even for a moment.

“Go on, we’ll keep an eye on him,” Eskel said. Jaskier looked at him, still uncertain. Eskel made a shooing motion with his hand. Jaskier relented and followed Lambert after arranging Geralt carefully on his side on the thick rug.

The blizzard was still raging. As soon as he stepped outside, tiny snowflakes slammed into his face. They got to work immediately. Lambert unfastened several sacks and bags from a delicate wooden sled, and Jaskier carried them inside as fast as possible. When he came for the final armful, Lambert paused before handing a small sack over.

“How close did we cut it?”

“We’re not sure, but we suspect he only has days left now,” Jaskier said. He wanted to say weeks, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice the vain hope.

Lambert cursed nastily. He gave the small sack to Jaskier and hoisted a large one on his shoulder.

“That was a clever solution,” Jaskier said, pointing at the sled. “Where did you get it?”

“Stole it,” was all Lambert said, ending the conversation. Jaskier kept his mouth shut as he followed Lambert inside to sort out the cargo he had piled by the main entrance. He carried several bags into the kitchen, peeking inside each one before storing the contents in the suitable shelves and cupboards. When he had all the potatoes and beets and herbs and apples neatly arranged, he returned to the common room where a heated discussion was going on.

“-- and that clearly explains why one pinch just isn’t enough. When you consider the potency we must achieve, a handful wouldn’t be an exaggeration.”

“That’s fine for the plants, but if you scale the monster parts accordingly, the toxicity would be too high. These are meant for children after all.”

“Why do you think so many of them die? I’m telling you, your estimates are too low.”

“What’s going on?” Jaskier asked in a whisper from Eskel who was sitting on the floor with Geralt while Vesemir and Coën argued at the table.

“We’re making good progress. Coën’s always had a talent for elixirs, his are the purest and most effective. I’m certain he can figure this out.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked. He couldn’t allow himself to fully commit to a hope that could turn out to be false, but he wanted to believe. His treacherous mind was already starting to give in to the promise that the problem would be solved, that an expert was working on it now.

“It looks like your hunch might be correct, Coën thinks the eyes are most likely as well, specifically the eye stalks.”

Jaskier smiled and threw caution to the wind. “Do you hear that, Geralt, we might actually figure this out in time.”

Geralt wasn’t awake, but Jaskier took his hand anyway and held it. The fingers were cold, but still alive. That was what Jaskier clung to these days. They were going downhill fast, but where there was life, there was hope. And now it could actually be more than a desperate fantasy.

“And that would bring the amount of blowball ridiculously high,” Vesemir said.

“Exactly. That volume would be needed in order to counteract something incredibly volatile, which fresh zeugl eye stalks are. From other recipes, we know the exact amounts needed for one or two eyes, and the balance here would suggest the use of both. If you look at these examples,” Coën picked up a book and pointed at a page, “you see the ratio between blowball and most venomous creatures, especially their eyes. The principle is well documented.”

“They really are close,” Jaskier whispered to Eskel. He squeezed Geralt’s hand, wanting to tell him that his salvation was imminent, but Geralt remained unaware.

“Still need to brew it, mind you. Some potions can take up to a month to prepare. But I’m sure this one won’t take that long,” Eskel hastily added when he saw Jaskier’s smile fade. “My guess based on the ingredients would be a couple of days at most.”

“You can last that long,” Jaskier said to Geralt and brushed a strand of dry, brittle hair off his face.

“He’ll be alright. Back to his grumpy self soon,” Eskel said. The fondness in his voice betrayed his emotions. Jaskier wanted to take his hand too, but checked himself. Remembering how averse to touch Geralt had been when they first met, he didn’t want to assume his gesture of friendship would be welcome, as much as it would’ve comforted him. He just smiled at Eskel and continued listening to the conversation regarding alchemical principles, even if much of it flew right over his head.

*****

Three days later, all the residents of the castle were gathered in the common room. After much debate and reasoning and research and double-checking, the potion was simmering on low flame. It would need to sit the entire night undisturbed, and in the morning, they should have the cure ready. They were all too anxious to sleep, so to pass the time, the witchers were drinking white gull, and Jaskier had been given a bottle of overly sweet raspberry liqueur that Lambert had brought with him. He claimed he had won it in a game of gwent and not drank a single drop himself, but Jaskier had his doubts when he saw that a substantial amount was missing. Not that he cared; as far as he was concerned, Lambert could indulge in whatever luxury he pleased. They were now counting hours before they could administer the potion to Geralt. He was nervous and excited and so full of hope he was ready to burst. Drinking alcohol in his state was not the brightest idea, but he did it anyway.

“Did I tell you the story about how I woke up with a chicken one morning?” Lambert asked.

“Yes. It was disgusting,” Eskel said. He took a long swig of gull and shuddered. “Do not tell it again.”

“Come on, it’s a good story.”

“We have a guest who might still consider you a halfway decent person,” Eskel said and nodded towards Jaskier. “Don’t ruin it for him.”

“Well someone tell some story, I’m bored!” Lambert wailed.

Jaskier couldn’t help but giggle. The sugary drink had gone straight to his head and everything seemed amusing to him. He was sitting on the floor with Geralt in his lap who was utterly unaware of what was going on in the room. He hadn’t woken up at all that day. Jaskier would’ve been sinking into despair, but they had the potion now. Just a few more hours and they could give it to him. He had to last that long.

“I could tell how impertinent you were as a youth, but everyone can still see that,” Vesemir said. Eskel snorted, nearly spilling his drink.

“But why are we even considering this question when we have a professional in our midst? Jaskier, if you would?” Eskel asked.

Jaskier hadn’t played his lute in a while, not since they started working full-time on the recipe. He would’ve preferred to sing rather than to tell a story, but he didn’t want to get up to go retrieve his instrument.

“Alright, I think I can manage to come up with something. Have you heard the story of how Geralt and I caught a doppler?”

Everyone shook their heads, and Jaskier launched into the tale. When he described how Geralt had given chase to the doppler, tripped on a gnome and fallen on his face, Lambert laughed so hard he slipped out of his chair. Coën looked at him and rolled his eyes. He was the only one staying sober since he needed to monitor the potion that was simmering in the corner of the room in their temporary laboratory.

“In the end, we were celebrated as heroes, of course,” Jaskier finished. He met some incredulous smiles, and some amused grins, mostly from Lambert.

“A fine story. Reminds me of the time I joined forces with Geralt to hunt a pair of leshy. They’re usually solitary creatures, but these two had banded together for some reason. Only fair that two witchers were commissioned too,” Eskel said. The others nodded. Eskel stood up and squatted next to Jaskier. He fished out Geralt’s left hand from under the pile of blankets and furs.

“See this scar?” he asked and presented the palm to everyone. There was a large circular scar near the bottom of the hand with jagged edges. “We’d defeated the leshy. The battle was pretty tough, and we were both rather winded.”

“Do you mean torn half to pieces and barely conscious?” Jaskier asked with a grin. He knew exactly the kind of understatements witchers tended to use when describing their condition after a nearly impossible fight.

“As I said, a bit tired,” Eskel said and glared at Jaskier. There was no viciousness in his gaze, only playfulness. “So we started gathering trophies to bring to our contractors, as evidence of a done deed. One of the leshy had died upright, and you know those things are huge. Geralt climbed up there to get the head. He was sitting on the thing’s shoulder while sawing its neck and when the head came loose, one of the antlers hooked around his wrist and pulled him down with it. As he landed on the antler, one of the spikes pierced his hand.”

Lambert and Jaskier laughed so hard they could barely breathe. Vesemir and Coën also cracked smiles.

“Oh, he has not told me that,” Jaskier said as he wiped tears from his eyes. Whenever Geralt refused to tell how he got his scars, Jaskier always assumed the stories were too painful to recall, not too embarrassing. Now he’d chase after the tales with renewed vigour. He hugged Geralt closer, leaning his cheek against his head.

“So many stories left to tell,” he whispered. “And I want to hear them all.”

“Three more hours, and you shall,” Coën noted from the corner. He was checking on the potion, appearing satisfied with its progress. Jaskier felt his cheeks go red. He kept forgetting how sensitive witcher ears were.

“Vesemir, do you have any funny stories about young Geralt?” Jaskier asked, trying to divert attention away from himself. For a large part, their night felt like a wake, except they weren’t mourning the dead. And as far as Jaskier was concerned, they wouldn’t. They were trading exclusively happy memories, as if in preparation of welcoming Geralt back to their midst again. He was physically present, but he hadn’t really been there for over a week now. Lambert had described him earlier as Jaskier’s life-sized doll. Jaskier didn’t know if the words were meant as a jest or an insult, but he didn’t like them in either case, accurate though they were.

“No,” was all Vesemir said in response. He didn’t like to share anything regarding his kids, Jaskier had learned. After they became fully-fledged witchers, certainly, but when they’d been children in training, he only threatened to reveal information, but never actually did so. Jaskier burned with curiosity, but he accepted the limitation. Maybe the memories were too painful, maybe too personal. Vesemir kept his emotions under even tighter control than Geralt, though Jaskier was slowly starting to get the hang of reading him.

“How about when we stole the cook’s favourite frying pan?” Eskel asked. Lambert claimed he’d never heard the story, as it was before his time. Eskel started to tell it, detailing how he and Geralt had found the perfect use for a frying pan while fishing, but he was interrupted when Coën suddenly jumped up and ran to the potion.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, unconsciously clutching Geralt tighter to his chest.

“Perhaps nothing, hang on,” Coën muttered. He stirred the potion cautiously, sniffing the air as he did so. Everyone waited silently, eyes fixed on him. After an agonisingly long moment, Coën declared that the potion was fine.

“Are you trying to scare us to death?!” Lambert asked, none too gently.

Jaskier dared to breathe freely again, relaxing his tensed muscles. All merriment was gone from their mood. The reminder that their hope was very fragile still sobered them more effectively than a bucket of cold water would have. Jaskier started humming a comforting lullaby, realising he was doing it only when the others looked at him. They said nothing. Eskel nodded approvingly and poured more white gull for everyone. Encouraged by him, Jaskier started singing, keeping the tones gentle and calm. Outside, the sun was rising.

*****

“I repeat once again, there’s no guarantee this will work. Maybe I brewed it wrong, maybe we got the ingredients wrong. Maybe the book really is just poetry after all,” Coën said. He was holding the finished potion firmly in his grasp, gesturing with it but not handing it over.

“Piss on your false modesty,” Lambert said and waved his hand. “Just give it to him, kill or cure, let’s get going.”

Jaskier was on the floor, holding Geralt in a sitting position against his body. He’d been completely limp all day and night, but now he was shuddering. Jaskier slapped him gently on the cheek, trying to rouse him enough to drink the potion. Geralt opened his eyes. They were unfocused and he didn’t acknowledge anyone in the room, but Jaskier considered it as good as they would get.

“Let’s do this,” he said and nodded at Coën who handed the potion over.

“Hope it’s sufficient.”

“One way to find out,” Jaskier said. He fed the potion slowly to Geralt. After he’d swallowed the final drop, the waiting started. None of them knew how fast the potion would work. Or if it would work at all. Jaskier forced himself into believing. What doubts he had he pushed down and ignored. This would succeed. It had to.

“You’ve wasted all the firewood, I’ll go chop more,” Lambert said and left. Vesemir and Eskel also had various tasks that needed doing. Jaskier was left alone with Coën who was taking notes at the table. He should probably put Geralt down and let him sleep, but Jaskier didn’t want to relinquish his hold now. Maybe something had gone wrong after all and these were the final moments they’d get to share.

“You know, I’ll be monitoring him until we see some change. Which probably won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest. You can go take a break,” Coën said without lifting his gaze from his book.

“Thank you, but I’d prefer to stay,” Jaskier said. He felt a bit embarrassed, like an irrational, overly emotional human, but he’d earned the right, in his opinion.

“Suit yourself,” Coën said. He mostly ignored Jaskier, focusing on writing his notes instead. He glanced at Geralt occasionally, but since there was no change, he let him be. Jaskier eventually put Geralt on the rug, knowing he was more comfortable lying down, and did some stretches.

“Wish we’d know already whether the elixir worked or not,” Jaskier said. He walked from one end of the room to the other, swinging his arms as he went.

“If it was going to kill him, that would’ve happened already, right? But there’s no difference at all yet.”

Jaskier walked another lap, this time making large circles with his shoulders.

“Surely any adverse reactions would’ve manifested already. But shouldn’t the positive changes be showing too? Usually your potions are almost immediate, like this one time --”

“Isn’t it your turn to cook?” Coën asked, interrupting Jaskier.

“Am I bothering you? Sometimes I get a bit chatty when I’m nervous. Not that I have much to be nervous about, except, like, everything, but --”

“Yes! Go make yourself useful somewhere else. I’ll keep a close eye on Geralt.”

“Will you come get me if there’s any change at all?”

“I will. And bring me something to eat as well while you’re at it.”

“Okay. Sorry,” Jaskier said. He adjusted Geralt’s blanket and gave him a quick pat on the head before leaving.

He headed to the kitchen, suddenly realising how hungry he was. There was a rabbit waiting for him in a pile of snow, this one unusually large, and some lumpy, deformed noodles Lambert had made earlier. Jaskier cut the meat into thin strips and tossed them into a wide pan to cook. The noodles needed something to mask their floury taste. He went through the restocked spice and herb cabinet, considering each option, losing himself in the task, humming as he worked.

“What smells so good?” Eskel asked when he poked his head into the kitchen later.

“Making banoodle again,” Jaskier replied.

“Which one was that?”

“Bunnies and noodles.”

Eskel groaned. Not because the dish was bad, especially the way Jaskier seasoned it, they just had it too often.

“Bring me a pig and I’ll make you candied bacon,” Jaskier said. He could swear he saw a tear of longing in Eskel’s eye.

“Don’t torment an innocent man like that,” Eskel said.

Jaskier laughed. Much of the tension he’d been carrying for months now seemed to have evaporated. They still didn’t have confirmation that the cure had worked, but he was too tired of worrying to keep it up. If the potion had failed, he would break. Either all was well, or all was gone. There was no in-between and his mind couldn’t handle the stress of living under the shadow of despair any longer.

“This is ready, I promised to take some to Coën. Join us?”

“Sure,” Eskel said and started picking up bowls. Vesemir and Lambert were likely to appear for dinner too, they had unerring noses for when any food was done. They went to the common room and only Eskel’s quick reflexes saved their meal.

When Jaskier stepped in and he saw Geralt’s eyes meet his, he forgot about the pan he was carrying. Eskel grabbed the handle when it slipped from Jaskier’s inert fingers.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. He ran to the fireplace where Geralt was lying on the bearskin. “Are you there?”

Geralt nodded. It was slow and the movement very small, but he was in control and fully alert. Jaskier covered his mouth with his hands, eyes glimmering with tears.

“Hey,” Geralt whispered. It was weak, his voice barely there, but Jaskier heard him. He bit his index finger to keep from crying out.

Behind him, the others were setting the bowls on the table, and digging in. Jaskier was only vaguely aware of them letting him have this moment alone with Geralt, waiting for their turn to greet their brother. Had he been paying attention, he would’ve seen the white-knuckled grips they had on their spoons, barely containing themselves. He might’ve even seen the shimmer of unshed tears in Vesemir’s eyes no one had ever witnessed before.

“You really are there,” Jaskier said. Tears were falling from his eyes unchecked now. He sniffed, not sure whether he was laughing or crying or both. Geralt smiled at him, and Jaskier couldn’t hold back anymore. He leaned down and slipped his arms around Geralt, hugging him close to his chest. “I missed you so much!”

“Sorry,” Geralt whispered. “Thank you.”

Jaskier chuckled through the tears. He’d thought he was relieved before, but now the emotion was flowing out of him in great waves. He felt giddy and joyous and hysterically happy. He didn’t want to let Geralt go, but some part of his brain realised he was squeezing him too hard. He set him down, but couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“You saved me,” Geralt whispered. Jaskier could tell he was utterly exhausted, barely able to stay awake. He would need to sleep soon, and now Jaskier trusted that he would wake up again.

“It was a team effort. I’d claim I did the least, really, it was Coën who made the potion and Lambert who brought the ingre--”

“You,” Geralt whispered, looking at Jaskier with as much intensity as he could manage. And Jaskier understood. After all, Geralt hadn’t given up. He’d fought harder than he’d ever had to fight before, against an enemy he couldn’t defeat. But he hadn’t been alone. That must’ve been the crucial motivation keeping him going when he had nothing left to give. And Jaskier was endlessly grateful for it.

Jaskier wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. He took Geralt’s hand. The fingers were cold, but they squeezed back.

“I have just one question for you,” he said. Geralt frowned at his mischievous tone. His eyes were more closed than open at that point. “How are you feeling?”

The unimpressed look Geralt gave him was so essentially Geralt that Jaskier felt his eyes grow moist again. He giggled, feeling so unbelievably light he nearly missed the husky reply.

“Hungry,” Geralt said, and it was the sweetest word Jaskier had heard all year.

*****

The sun was setting behind the mountains. Geralt and Jaskier were sitting in the yard, on a low wall that had recently emerged from under melting snow. They were close enough that their thighs were touching -- for warmth, as Jaskier claimed. Geralt had regained some of his strength in the recent weeks, but he still tired easily and was constantly cold. He remained too slim for Jaskier’s liking, but he was in full control of his body again. Looking at him, one could tell he’d been ill for a long time, but one couldn’t guess the nature of his illness.

“Spring is approaching,” Geralt noted. Jaskier nodded. He was captivated by the extravagant colours of the sky. Pink, orange, and blazing red where the sun was still visible. The wind was picking up, making him shiver and press closer against Geralt’s side.

“I didn’t think I’d live to see it,” Geralt said quietly.

“But you did,” Jaskier said. He’d also thought that, with great fear and anguish. His heart ached thinking back to those dark days, still very raw in his mind.

“I wouldn’t have survived without you.”

Jaskier smiled. To Geralt, it was a fact. Logical and easy to say. He put his arm around Geralt’s shoulders and squeezed.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t,” he said.

“You would’ve sung the tale of my demise, heroic and entirely untrue.”

“I don’t think I could’ve. How would I smile to a crowd while describing the destruction of a large part of my life?”

“I get that now,” Geralt said.

“Get what?”

“How much, well, you know. You might care. About, about me.”

“I love you. It’s that simple. You’re my best friend. I don’t bestow that honour upon just anyone,” Jaskier said. He kept his tone light, but his heart was racing. Geralt hadn’t had a choice before, but now he had full agency. If Jaskier was too intense, too possessive, he could walk away.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. “I mean that, so much. You’re a large part of my life too. I -- just thank you for being in it. And staying.”

“I’ll never leave. As long as you’ll have me,” Jaskier said and leaned his head against Geralt’s. He closed his eyes and smiled. He could stay there forever. The breeze was cold and the wall was hard against his backside, but his heart was warm and full. He had all he needed, right there by his side.

“Always,” Geralt whispered, so quietly it could’ve been a trick of the wind. He put his hand on Jaskier’s. It was steady, in full control, the motion deliberate. Jaskier turned his wrist and they clasped each other’s hands.

The sun set, and they looked at the pink sky together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Words cannot describe how much I appreciate each kudos, bookmark and comment. You guys are the best! <3
> 
> P.S. I'm also under the same name on tumblr.


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